Yellow Like Curry, Warm Like Gentle Afternoon Sun
by torpe-t
Summary: Niea7 fanfic. (Strong) hints of shoujo ai - if it's not your thing, I suggest passing it over.


**Author's Notes: **just a small thing. I don't really no why I wrote it - I don't even watch the show regularly, just snippets here and there. I'm not quite satisfied with the finished work; I tried expanding but it turned out worse so i decided to stick with the original. Who knows, maybe in the distant future I'd churn out a sequel.

**Spoilers:** none

**Warnings:** it's unbetad; therefore the possibilty of me overlooking some errors is high. Dashes run amok in my works (as one of my teachers pointed out) - i have a fondness for them, with their cute itsy bitsy lines... smiles inanely

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**Yellow Like Curry, Warm Like Gentle Afternoon Sun Rays**

It's whenever she prepares curry that the memory – and the accompanying twinge that goes with it – comes to her the strongest. Just like it does whenever she passes a junkyard or a public bath.

That's why she veers away from those places, going out of her way to avoid them. Considering that her work place and living quarters are now in a modern, major metropolis, a junkyard or a public bath isn't really a usual fixture in her daily commute. The former on the outskirts of town and the latter close to extinction, so passing one of them is an atypical occurrence. But still, she is anally persistent in going out of her way to shun them.

Curry, however, she can't escape so easily. It must be one of life's many ironies – or it may just be a coincidence – that Genzo-kun loves the dish. Sometimes she wonders if this is the past intruding in the present.

In the somewhat shadowy darkness of the kitchen, Mayuko pauses in the act of making the curry sauce. She didn't open the lights, although it's not because they need to cut back on electricity consumption. It's just more comforting for her to open the windows and let the sunlight stream in.

Besides, it'll be sunset soon, and she doesn't want to miss it. It's seldom she can catch it nowadays, and it is rarer still that she lets herself give in to sentimentality – the risk of the past and regret and fear overwhelming her is high and she's never been one for gambling. Most of the time, she is successful in her dogged concentration on the present.

So, putting down the bowl, she looks out of the window and waits. In less than a minute, she'll be free. Free from the tight bolts she placed guarding the memories of _her_. The long rays of orange light slither stealthily, picking the locks, and warming the ice around her heart.

For a few timeless moments, she lets herself go back to Public Bath Enohana, with Niea, sitting on the roof, looking at the golden horizon, watching the sinking ball of fire. The sound of the lonely fan and faint voices of the neighbors slowly fades away; and in its place, enters the loaded serenity of the past – the tandem breathing of lungs and the comfortable silence of companionship as two individuals – unknowingly, reluctantly – coming together and leaving footprints in each other's hearts.

As she closes her eyes, the gentle glare of the setting sun somehow illuminating the things she sees beneath her closed lids, Mayuko surrenders herself to the clutches of the persistent past...

_The late afternoon breeze flutters her hair as she sits on the roof, her arms wrapped around her legs with her chin resting on her knees. A few feet away from her, Niea is stretched out and lightly dozing. The old-fashioned radio softly plays an old song._

_They exchange no words, nor any glances or touches; yet both know the other is content. Each is at peace with themselves, with each other._

_It warms her all over, this unacknowledged bond of companionship, of friendship. _

_She doesn't know how and when this happened – when Niea's habit of staring at the horizon became her as well, when and how it became a cherished ritual and a highlight in her day, how she would feel incomplete when it did not happen._

_She only knows that she likes it, that she is comforted by it. She likes that whenever they see the sun nearing its setting, they would, in silent agreement, drop whatever they are doing and go sit on the roof. She likes breathing in the air, a tinge of burnt wood mixed with the freshness of the vegetation; likes the breeze rushing past her skin, not too cold, not too humid; likes looking at the gentle burning of that big sinking ball of fire, painting the sky in orange and red._

_She likes…Nieee…the silence…and the serenity…and the scenery…and…Niea._


End file.
